


Wednesday (Green Eyes)

by naruhearts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Castiel's First Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, I didn't finish this on time for the 25th because of my own Christmas celebrations, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Schmoop, Sexual Tension, but here it is - FINALLY, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 12:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhearts/pseuds/naruhearts
Summary: “Listen, I...I should, y’know, tell you more often, and I thought I do, but I realized I don’t. Not all the time, and, uh, it’s Christmas.”Castiel’s chest pounds louder, louder, intense in its repetition.He's waited so long for this.





	Wednesday (Green Eyes)

It happens on a Wednesday.

Outside the sunlight is abundant, diffracted rays reaching past winter-naked trees and bathing the bunker in crisp shades of white.

Castiel sits, spine pressed upon the headboard. He’s leafing through _Breakfast of the Champions_ , Vonnegut’s charged voice unraveling winsome narrative satirism before his eyes, and Castiel’s mind deconstructs and absorbs, thumb playing with yet another dog-eared page—the tenth fold in under five minutes.

The folded page brings a tiny smile to Castiel’s face.

Dean had always told him that a good book was a used book. They possessed wrinkles, folds, stains of regality, old scrapes and bruises that could rival bedridden yet astute elders, unaffected by age.

Hence, Dean prided himself on the frayed state of his Vonnegut copies.

_“Worn books are the equivalent of old people, man. Judging them for their age or looks ain’t preparing you for what’s actually inside ‘em.”_

_“Like me?”_

_“Yeah. Yeah, Cas. Like you. But you’re still one handsome motherfucker.”_

Castiel did not react, unsure if he was supposed to construe Dean’s comment as a serious aside or joke, although he _is_ aware of the complexity of human socialization, where someone may verbalize certain words that mean something else entirely.  

Something deeper.

He’s been human for three months, after all.

Accompanying his newfound human self was the gradual process of “ _living in_ ” his room within the bunker.

Of course, Castiel had no idea how to do such a thing seeing as he was homeless the first time, but he made no allusions to that fact, acknowledging his best friend’s rueful glances.

Then Dean explained, in colloquial terms, that regular humans made sure their own room breathed who they were, down to the Twix wrappings they would toss on the floor out of sheer laziness.

Castiel listened.

His clothing, purchased from Value Village, wasn’t remarkable. Blue colours—ocean to baby pastel—occupied the drawers alongside doses of dark grey and charcoal. Dean enthusiastically insisted he buy recycled band shirts, with big, bright and obnoxious font set against red or black backgrounds. Tossing Castiel one ( _Led Zeppelin North American Tour 1975_ ) and smiling wide, he couldn’t deny Dean his request.

Castiel’s eyes stray to the wall across his bed.

There’s his mahogany bulletin board, thumbtacked with photographs in various sizes. It’s a vast collage. Black and white, sepia, monochrome, colour.

After learning about Castiel’s human desire to take pictures, Dean was thoughtful enough to acquire this cheap little digital camera for him. Said it was some “ _2009 Canon 05X model, but it should still work pretty good. Has decent resolution, too. I also bought three memory cards just in case you run out of space. If you want filters, you gotta upload this baby’s memory to your laptop, then you can print your photos here. Wait…you_ do _know how to use Photo Editor, right?_ ”

Castiel did not, so Dean taught him—eager and without complaint.

His ‘photophile collage’ (as Dean put it) captured mundanely extraordinary things, like the two mating bluejays he encountered during his nature walks. Ornate pebbles. Churning streams. Dark soil nurturing a newborn daisy bud. Sometimes he drove to the market and snapped fleeting human scenes that faded milliseconds later, forgotten by time itself; a girl dropping her dessert, ice cream slipping off waffle cone. Splatters of spit on the pavement. Beyond glass windows, a grumpy-faced waitress sets down two coffees and walnut cake. An engaged couple arguing over ring sizes and the jeweler’s sadness in response to their unexpected animosity.

Castiel’s _favourite_ subjects, however, are Sam, Dean, and Jack.

Slipping the camera out of his coat when they work cases together, he takes and takes and takes. A deceased vampire head, vicious mouth curled preemptively. Bloody angel blades. Charred demon remains. Sam’s too-large chin taking up the viewframe, trees spearing the cloudy sky as he knocks Castiel to the ground—a playful giant. Dean’s annoyed _“Sam!”,_  split lips open when he lunges toward the lens. Half of a grinning Jack. Sam researching. Bunker breakfasts. Jack’s artistry, fingers an ink charcoal via drawing. Castiel misusing the zoom function.

In the bottom left-most corner, two more photos are obscured under the rest.

Meant only for Castiel.

Dean laughing, eyes a vibrant hazel-flecked emerald. He’s staring at the camera directly, and his teeth chomp down on a bison burger, thin juices soaking his plump lips mid-chew.

The other is a stolen monochrome shot, just a day old.

Bunker garage. Dean in his element. He fiddles with his midnight black car, all robust arms, broad corded shoulders and narrow hips. A thin beige shirt hides his starry-freckled skin.

_Beautiful._

Castiel had made a gentle noise, and Dean turned around, surprisingly unperturbed. Then he let Castiel take his picture, remarked: “ _Hey, you. Always watchin’ me_ ,” and threw an indulgent wink that squeezed the depths of Castiel’s stomach—twisted it into a pleasant thing.

He inhaled. Held his breath as Dean approached.

Silently, he stripped Castiel naked beneath the sheer intensity of his gaze.

The camera strap was dangling from Castiel’s palm.

And Castiel had watched, shivering inwardly, as Dean—hands coated in engine oil—slid his callused fingers along the inside of his wrists.

Slow and deliberate.

His skin burned alive like hot coals where Dean touched him, traced oily sacramental lines.

_“Cas.”_

Dean was so close, breath vibrating across his cheek. Rough baritone enunciated his name in a way that sent his world crashing amongst holy fire and flame.

He was afraid to look up.

Because Castiel now knew nothing except visceral _want_ , his heart screaming for the man, and drunk human impulse saturated his blood.

But this crackling moment: one in a thousand moments accumulated over innumerable _years_ , was disturbed by Sam’s phone call. Castiel instantly mourned the loss of Dean’s heat, his fingers, his body pressing near, showing him that perhaps, _just maybe_ , Dean wanted Castiel as much as Castiel wanted Dean.

_Must he hope?_

Two knocks.

“Cas? You there?”

Castiel snaps out of his avid trance. His palms are sweating, and he closes the book in his lap.

When he opens the door, a kind face meets him.

“Hi.”

“You’re back. What’s up?”

Dean’s little brother snorts, amused.

“I’m still not used to hearing you talk like that. Anyway, we got everything! You excited to celebrate?”

Castiel smiles wide. He pats Sam’s arm.

“I am! It’s my first human Christmas. Where’s Dean and Jack?”

“In the War Room basically wrestling the tree, but Jack wants me to teach him how to bake gingerbread. Dean told me to come get you,” Sam replies. There’s faint knowingness behind his glance as he steers Castiel away.

His chest flutters at that, Sam gushing his fascination about historical Christmas customs—about familial and intimate holiday affairs across the globe. Castiel, unconsciously, flexes his palms.

Yearns.

 

* * *

 

 _Honey you are the sea_  
_Upon which I float_  
_And I came here to talk_ _  
I think you should know_

 

_***_

 

Sam soon departs from Castiel’s side to assist Jack in the kitchen, and Castiel is left alone.

He finds Dean pitching forwards underneath the soft glow of haphazard red, green and blue Christmas lights, hugging the Winchester Christmas tree, thin leaf needles fresh.

Dean resembles an angry bear rearing on its hind legs.

Castiel gravitates to him, ever trapped within his orbit, and Dean reaches for Castiel’s helping arms opposite the tree. Nimble fingertips linger again, bringing back the insistent flash of heat that exacerbates Castiel’s fevered dreams like movie film wrapped around his eyes every night.

“Hey, Cas.”

_Warm._

Castiel smirks, small.

“Hello. This fir tree you bought used to be one of the healthiest.”

“Oh, it’s healthy, alright.”

Dean’s mischievous expression, awash in light, is intent, and his rose pink lips are the ghost of a smile.

Photogenic beauty beheld.

Castiel wills his own eyes not to wander, but the air between them returns to butter-thickness, cloy and suffocating like it was in the garage, and his skin prickles, both anticipative and hesitant, his undealt emotions warring each other when the tree is set and Dean steps aside to face him.

He waits.

It’s a mysterious wonder how humans cope. Castiel’s heartbeat batters his eardrums in deafening crescendoes of _thud thud thud thud thud._

“So, uh, we have to decorate it, but it can wait.”

Dean laughs, quiet, a nervous bass chime, freckles prominent atop blushing cheeks.

Castiel notes Dean’s anxiety.

“Listen, I...I should, y’know, tell you more often, and I thought I do, but I realized I don’t. Not all the time, and, uh, it’s Christmas.”

Castiel’s chest pounds louder, louder, intense in its repetition, while Dean lifts his hand and touches his upper arm.

Dean's fingers curl around the circumference of his bicep, thumb skimming upwards, downwards. The vague _squeeze_ of Dean’s hand constricts his veins; his senses are overloaded, blazing hot.

Through Castiel’s sweater, the man’s touch brands skin.

“Thanks. For everything. We’re glad you’re here. You’re—”

Castiel freezes.

_A brother? A friend?_

_“You’re our brother, Cas. I want you to know that.”_

He might hear him wrong, or miss something else, or—

Ice water douses his thoughts.

_Fear._

Mind disconnected from his body, Castiel is aware that he’s blinking, more than once, three times per second, and it takes a while before he recognizes himself pulling away; before he hears himself stammer: “Oh, thank you. Jack—Jack needs help in—”

Dean’s wide gaze leaks devastation.

“ _What?_  Cas, wait—m’not finished—”

Castiel swivels. He tries to dislodge Dean’s grip, but his socked feet slip on the floor, and he’s stumbling—

They land together, a tangle of limbs upon the cheap patterned rug Sam had bought.

Castiel is hyperaware that Dean did not let go.

He looks up this time.

And Dean is staring. His elbows shift to trap Castiel under him.

A frightening maelstrom of emotions dance behind those transparent green eyes—determination, joy, affection, _passion._ They hit Castiel in one firm punch, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

“ _I’m_ glad you’re here. You’re...you’re _important_ to me.”

Dean whispers privately, gentle and secret hushed tones, and Castiel’s toes curl.

Vision moist, he wordlessly lifts his shaking hands, dares to trace Dean’s rugged contours that he reconstructed from Hell. All the beloved parts of him Castiel knows like diamonds in the rough, right down to their simplest molecular components.

He’s waited so long for this.

Suddenly, Castiel—in utmost awe—watches Dean lower his head to press reverent kisses against his raised knuckles—olive tissue scarred by blisters, bruises, and wendigo nails.

Each kiss is love, praising Castiel’s soul.

Each kiss destroys his fear.

“Dean…”

Dean moves closer, licking his plump rose lips, and Castiel caresses his stubbled jawline, then rubs tender circles beneath his ears. Above him Dean is responsive, whining quietly, and his half-lidded lashes flutter.

 _Gorgeous_.

Nosing at Dean’s jaw, Castiel smells pine needles riddled with whiskey spice eggnog, crisp measures of worn leather, fried food, and engine oil.

Odours Castiel adores.

_How did they survive such intimate starvation?_

Dean squirms, sparkling pupils blown and lips parted. Their bodies create one solid, thrumming line.

“Cas—it’s _Christmas_. I want—”

Castiel kisses him.

There, below dollar store Christmas lights, they drown in the violent abyss of human arousal and romance, trembling and taut as pure carnal desire finally consumes them, roaring victoriously after lying dormant, delayed.

Castiel is thankful that Sam and Jack chose to retreat to their rooms, footsteps rushing past a few minutes ago.

Dean’s mouth and hands devour, an unstoppable force, and Castiel wraps his arms around him, fingers running through dirty blonde hair.

His full lips are Castiel’s drug, and they perform a ritual of raw blissful sensuality together: nips and licks and wet, noisy sucks punctuated with groans deep enough to move mountains. Dean drops his weight, their hips aligning, and he sinks his teeth into Castiel’s bottom lip.

_“It’s good to have you back, Cas.”_

Dean rolls his pelvis desperately, gasping, luminous and as vulnerable as ever, and Castiel’s vision explodes like fireworks shattering the Earth. He arches his spine, inhales the sweet breath of this man, this imperfectly perfect man who bleeds ferocious courage and selflessness, this man whom Castiel loves infinitely, beyond bounds—outside of Heaven, Hell, and Time.

“ _Oh_ —Dean—”

“Cas— _god_ , I—” Dean chokes, on the verge of tears; he pushes himself inside Castiel, tattooing his permanent essence across his heart.

They are one. One profound entity. One balanced scale.

Have always been.

_I love you. I love you so much, sweetheart._

Castiel doesn't need to hear it in order to believe it.

 

***

 

 _I came here with a load_  
_And it feels so much lighter_  
_Now I met you_  
_And honey you should know_ _  
That I could never go on without you_

_Green eyes_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Merry Christmas to all of you xox
> 
> If you'd like to read more canon-verse (or canon-divergent) Christmas/Holidays/New Year's Destiel from me, do let me know!
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://naruhearts.tumblr.com)


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